


Wide Awake

by shakti108



Series: Mingling [3]
Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Fantasizing, Humor, M/M, mtv
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 16:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: Jon and Richie watch MTV ...





	Wide Awake

**Author's Note:**

> I mean no offense to Phil Collins or David Lee Roth.

"I swear to god, if I hear this _Sussudio_ shit one more time …"

At first Jon had been happy their current hotel had MTV. Then he'd noticed the same five videos seemed to be on endless rotation. Fucking _Sussudio_ was the worst offender … or maybe that David Lee Roth gigolo crap. It was a tough call.

All he knew was, it was two in the morning, and Phil Collins was in his face again.

Richie stepped out of the bathroom, toothbrush poised in front of his lips. "Just say the word -- _Ohhhh,_ " he sang in falsetto. "Su-su-sussudio."

Jon gave him The Eye. "You think that's cute?"

Richie nodded. "I do."

"You're wrong," Jon grumbled, looking at the TV again.

It was a lie, because the son of a bitch was pretty cute. But Jon had a really good bad mood going, and he wasn't ready to be charmed out of it. The show that night had sucked, and he was never able to shake it off the way the other guys could -- especially when it was mostly his fault.

His voice had been thin for days now, and he knew the drinking, weed and not-sleeping weren't helping. So he'd decided to turn in early that night -- which led Richie to do the same.

And that had gotten a raised eyebrow from Dave. (Richie had denied it, but it totally happened.) Jon made a mental note to devise a protocol for how they should bow out of the night early. Otherwise, they might as well have a neon "Gay Sex" sign flashing above their heads.

Right now, though, there was a more immediate problem: He needed to crash, and the odds were slim to none that Richie planned on tucking him in and singing him a lullaby.

Jon glared at Phil Collins.

"They can't play _anything_ else, even at two a.m.?" he griped. "Like, I dunno, one of our videos?"

"Ah vi-hos duck," Richie replied through a mouthful of toothpaste.

And yeah, most of their videos did suck, Jon had to admit. Especially _She Don't Know Me._ That had been some embarrassing shit, and he'd felt like an asshole during the whole process. It didn't help that he hated that damn song, but the video had made it a thousand times worse -- portraying him as some lovesick Rick Springfield type, and barely acknowledging there were four other guys in the band.

The fallout had made Jon a bit video-averse. Not that the other guys had been openly pissed -- Richie had mainly bitched about the girly silver belt he'd been forced to wear. But Jon had sensed an undercurrent of resentment to the wardrobe complaints.

Richie emerged from the bathroom, stripped down to boxers and a t-shirt. He halted in front of the TV.

"Long song."

"That's what I'm saying."

"Change the channel," Richie advised reasonably, before flopping down on the bed and resting his head on Jon's belly.

_Uh-oh._

"What are you doing?" Jon asked warily.

"Watching TV."

Jon was trying to puzzle out a tactful response when he heard a familiar chorus coming from the TV. He looked over and sure enough, his video image was looking back at him.

"Fucking finally," he declared as Richie bolted upright and raised a fist toward the screen.

This time when Richie busted out a falsetto "In and outta love," Jon smiled.

Richie turned to him with a grin. "Bitch and you shall receive, I guess."

Jon felt his bad mood losing its grip, partly because he didn't actually hate this video. Shooting it at the Jersey Shore had automatically made it feel less phony.

"Oh my," Richie said, leaning forward, eyes wide in faux-shock. "Those are some tight jeans, Jonny. That bulge doesn't leave much to the imagination."

Jon smirked. "Are you imagining something?"

Richie kept his eyes on the screen. "I don't have to imagine anymore."

Jon just stared for a moment. Anymore? So Richie used to imagine … things. He felt a little flutter in his chest as he wondered how long this imagining had been going on -- and what, exactly, had been going through Richie's mind.

Jon shook his head and turned to the TV for a distraction, only to be confronted with video-Richie shirtless on the beach.

_Shit._

Luckily, the scene quickly jumped to their stage performance, and Jon's attention was momentarily consumed by his own animal-print pants. Maybe that hadn't been the best choice.

He shifted his focus to video-Richie, who looked equally ridiculous, with his white sneakers and sex faces. And yet, Jon was getting turned on -- which was mildly alarming. So he dove for the cover of ridicule.

"Oh my," he gushed. "Those leather pants, Rich. Leaving zero to the imagination, huh?"

Richie glanced at him. "I've never been shy."

Jon couldn't resist pushing the banter. "True." he conceded. "You do crawl right up on people and lick 'em."

Richie scooted around to face him, coy smile in place. "Not people," he corrected. "You."

Jon's heartbeat quickened. "Lucky me," he said lightly, looking back to the screen -- where his video self was now leaning into video-Richie so hard they looked like they might topple over.

_Shit._

The bed shifted as real-Richie started to slink his way toward the headboard. "Guess what I'm imagining now," he murmured before nuzzling Jon's neck.

Jon's instinct was to melt into the sensation, but through his well-honed powers of restraint he put a hand on Richie's shoulder.

"Um. Y'know, I really need to get some rest." He felt like a tool as soon as the words were out.

Richie lifted his head and looked at him skeptically. "Seriously?"

"Uh, yeah." He didn't want to say it, not even a little. But for some reason, he felt it was important to establish a boundary: His voice -- the band's performance -- had to be the priority.

"My voice was pretty shot tonight," he explained. "I need to take better care of myself."

Richie flashed a sly smile. "I can definitely take care of you."

Jon almost groaned as he felt a rush of blood southward, but he managed to remain stoic. "No, really. I'm gonna go to sleep."

Richie blinked. "Oh. You're serious."

Jon nodded.

"Oh," Richie repeated, rolling onto his back. "OK. Cool."

It might have been the hour, but Jon thought he heard the cries of his cock cursing him. "Sorry," he said -- to whom he wasn't sure.

Richie looked at him. "Naw, man. When you said you were turning in early, I just thought … Never mind."

Even through the dim lighting, it looked like Richie's face was coloring.

"It's cool," Jon said quickly. "I mean, usually I would …"

He let the thought trail off because he wasn't sure where it was going. Were they up to the point of _usually_ yet?

"Yeah," Richie replied, like he understood. "Um. I guess I should sleep in my bed then."

Jon hesitated, struck by how much he disliked that scenario. "Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly. "That's probably best."

"OK," Richie said, with forced cheerfulness.

Jon glanced at the screen. Their video selves were gone, replaced by … David Lee Roth. He shut the TV off and tossed the remote aside in disgust.

"G'night," he said, watching Richie crawl under his own covers.

"'Night, Jonny."

Richie killed the nightstand lamp and they lay quietly for a while. At first, Jon was determined to fall asleep: He'd get a solid eight hours and maybe go for a run in the morning -- and then eat fruit or something. Whatever a normal, health-conscious person might do.

But it quickly became clear he couldn't fall asleep through sheer will. His mind and body were still buzzing from the performance, and it was always hard to come down from that. Plus, he was cold. The AC was blasting and he didn't feel like going all the way across the room to turn it down.

He couldn't help but notice, though, that Richie's bed was marginally closer. And the man in that bed just happened to be a human furnace. It only made sense to get in bed with him -- in the name of a good night's rest.

Jon got up and crept over, assuming Richie would already be asleep. The guy was a savant when it came to sleeping.

But as soon as he lifted the covers, Richie rolled onto to his back. "What are you doing?" he asked groggily.

Jon just continued to climb in. "This OK?" he asked, like it was an afterthought.

"Uh, yeah. But I thought you needed to sleep."

"I do. I think I'll sleep better here -- if you don't mind."

Richie paused before answering. "Yeah, it's cool," he said, though he sounded unsure. He turned onto his side, facing away from Jon. "G'night."

"'Night."

Jon lay there for a few minutes, blinking into the dark. His quest to sleep was a noble one, he realized, but it was also futile. Because right now, there was no fucking way.

It wasn't that he was wired from the show, or too cold. The truth was, he couldn't stop thinking about what Richie had said: It sounded like he'd been fantasizing about him -- about them -- for some time.

It made sense, of course. Richie hadn't just woken up one day and decided to lick him. But now Jon's curiosity was piqued, and that was generally trouble.

He scooted over to wrap himself around Richie's back, landing a palm on his belly.

"Umm?" was the only response.

"This OK?" Jon whispered, before laying a few feathery kisses just below Richie's ear. He felt an immediate response in the muscles under his hand.

"Sh-sure," came the shaky reply. "But you said …"

Jon nibbled at Richie's earlobe. "I changed my mind."

Richie sighed, then flipped over and cupped his cheek. "You sure?"

Jon took a breath, grateful for the dark. "Tell me what you imagined."

Again silence, but that was expected.

"What?" Richie finally asked.

Jon looked down reflexively. "You said you used to imagine things. Like what?"

Richie chuckled, sounding nervous. "Huh? I don't … Why?"

Jon reached out to run his fingertips along Richie's arm, feeling a little shiver at the contact. "I'm curious."

"Um. I dunno. Just random things, once in a while."

"When?" Jon prompted, continuing to glide his fingers along the same path. "Like when I'd wear my tight jeans?"

He wasn't sure what was making him so brazen.

Richie exhaled heavily. "Jeez, Jon, I don't … Yeah, your jeans were probably a factor."

Jon smiled a little. "OK. So what would you imagine?"

Silence.

"You were just saying you've never been shy," Jon cajoled.

"Well, this is different."

"Why?"

"It's embarrassing."

"What?" He knew he was being annoying, but he couldn't stop himself. Or more truthfully, he didn't want to stop. He was wide awake now.

"Was it ever like this?" he nudged. "Like, I'd get in bed with you in the middle of the night?"

Another sigh. "God, you're a pain in the ass. Yeah, I've thought about you crawling into my bed. OK?"

Jon's smile broadened. "Then what?"

"Well, you sure didn't ask me twenty questions."

Jon laughed softly. "But what _did_ I do?"

"Jonny," Richie pleaded.

Jon felt a pang of guilt, so he decided to give the poor guy a break. "Did I do this?" he inquired, tweaking a nipple through Richie's t-shirt.

Richie grabbed his wrist. "Bitch," he muttered, but Jon could hear the smile in his voice.

"Answer my question," he persisted.

"There was a question?"

"In your many fantasies about me, did I ever do that?"

Richie snorted. "Don't flatter yourself. And you did a lot more than that."

"Oh _my,_ " Jon teased, even as he grew a bit woozy from the diversion of blood to his cock. "Tell me more, you little perv."

Richie laughed again. " _I'm_ the perv?"

Jon reached his hand around and massaged the nape of Richie's neck. "Just tell me. Why are you being shy?"

"I just … I don't want you to think I'm a freak or something."

Jon stilled his hand. "Is it that kinky?" He cringed at how his voice cracked.

"No," Richie answered instantly. "I mean, I don't think so. It's just … I was thinking those things about my best friend. I don't want you to think I'm ..."

Jon sensed a tug at his proverbial heart strings, but he couldn't let Richie off the hook just yet.

"Yeah, well, I already know you're a freak," he assured. "You can't damage your reputation with me."

Richie didn't say anything and Jon started to worry he'd taken the whole thing too far. Then he felt fingertips on his cheek.

"Can we just shut up for a while?" Richie whispered as he leaned in.

The kiss started almost innocently, just light pecks and playful nips. Eventually, though, Jon landed on his back, his mouth being ravished -- his own fingers scrabbling at the hem of Richie's shirt.

He groaned in relief once they'd shed their shirts and he finally felt skin on skin. As he slid his palms down Richie's back, he realized, dimly, that he was getting hooked on that particular sensation.

But he supposed there were much worse addictions to have.

He inhaled sharply as Richie began to rock his hips against him, sending ripples of pleasure up his spine. His hand automatically found the waistband of Richie's boxers, because they obviously needed to go. Richie, ever accommodating, lifted up enough to slip the boxers down and then help Jon do the same.

Jon heard himself groaning again, more recklessly, as Richie took hold of him and lined up their cocks. They started moving against each other, their little grunts gradually blending into unguarded moans. Chest to chest, heartbeat over heartbeat. Jon wrapped an arm around Richie's shoulders, running his other hand down his back and over the curve of his ass.

"Tell me," he whispered close to his ear.

Richie lifted his head a bit. "What?" he asked breathlessly.

"You know." Jon pushed his hips up and drew a whimper. "Did you imagine doing this?"

Richie let his head drop, and Jon felt simultaneously guilty and amused over his despair.

"C'mon," he murmured, cupping Richie's ass and rolling his hips.

Richie moaned into the pillow and Jon felt like he could almost come from the sound alone.

"Yes," Richie gave in, raising his head. "I've thought about this."

Jon smiled before Richie moved in for an urgent kiss on the lips -- probably to shut him up, he knew. But he wasn't quite finished.

By degrees, Jon shifted their positions until he was on top -- hovering his lips just above Richie's so they were sharing short, hot breaths. When he felt Richie's chest heaving against his, he started quickening his thrusts, riding the sounds enveloping them. The low moans, sharp gasps, headboard tapping against the wall.

Jon wasn't sure what possessed him in that moment, but something about the sounds, the heat, the look on Richie's face -- it all made him suddenly need to know.

He brushed some sweaty locks off of Richie's forehead and kissed him softly on the lips. "Did we fuck?"

Richie's eyes flew open as he let out a surprised half-laugh, half-sob.

"When you imagined," Jon clarified, in case Richie's sex-addled brain couldn't put it together. "Did we?"

Richie shut his eyes tightly. "Jesus Christ, Jonny … Yes," he rasped, before sliding both hands to Jon's ass and squeezing hard.

"Fuck," Jon ground out, burying his head in the curve of Richie's neck.

He hadn't known whether Richie was even OK with the concept -- or whether he, himself, was. Now, knowing that Richie was not only open to it, but had done the play-by-play in his mind … It was kind of overwhelming.

Because the idea of being with him that way was slightly terrifying, yet also sparked a lust that left Jon light-headed.

He responded the only way he could, picking up the pace of his thrusts even more. And Richie met him, until they were furiously grinding against each other.

"Fuck," Jon gasped again, because that seemed to be his entire vocabulary now.

He slid his hand into Richie's hair and gave it a little tug -- just enough to tilt his head back -- then latched on right above his pulse point.

He got a low growl in return, and Jon thought it might've been the hottest thing he'd ever heard. When Richie started dragging his fingernails along his back, Jon was pretty sure he was leaving marks. And he'd probably care later when his brain was operational.

For now, all that mattered was the familiar heat gathering below, the trembling muscles under his hands, the shuddering sighs and half-formed words. He was blessedly lost.

A few minutes later, when they slowly came back down together, they landed in a messy, tangled heap.

Jon lay there for a while, head resting on Richie's chest, waiting for his lungs to stop burning. He could feel fingertips tracing haphazard patterns on his back, and his eyelids started to grow heavy.

Before he could drift off, though, Richie gave him a gentle shake. "Hey. We're a fucking mess."

Jon didn't move. "You mean that metaphorically?"

"Yes. And also in the 'covered in cum' way."

Jon snorted. "Guess you're right."

He slowly pressed up to sit and looked down at Richie and his ridiculous sex hair.

"You ever imagine us having shower sex?"

Richie smiled. "Maybe."

Jon just stared as his stomach did a slow flip-flop. He probably looked like a dope, he realized, but Richie didn't comment. He simply held his gaze, the smile fading a little.

"Why do you have to know everything?"

Jon shrugged. Honestly, he didn't need to know everything. Just certain things.

"How long?" he asked.

Richie raised an eyebrow. "Ten inches."

"Bullshit. And you know what I mean."

Richie looked off to the side. "I don't know. A while."

Jon bit his lip as he studied Richie's face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

This time Richie turned to him with wide eyes. " _Why?_ Because I wanted to keep my job? And … I never thought you'd want me, too."

Jon felt a fleeting ache in his chest, even though he hadn't done anything wrong. He just hadn't realized …

He cleared his throat. "So what changed a couple weeks ago? The fox and the deer affected you that much?"

He played it as a joke, but he'd been wondering -- from the beginning -- why Richie chose to make a move that day, knowing it could have ended very badly.

Richie shook his head. "I don't know. I just … thought I should take a chance."

He looked away again, toward Jon's bed, like he wanted to make a break for it. So Jon decided to relent, because he preferred to have him stay.

"I'm sorry," he said, lying down on his back and giving Richie some space. "I'll shut up about it."

He closed his eyes. The stickiness was getting uncomfortable on his skin, but he was too tired to think of moving. Too tired and warm.

"I don't mean to be a jerk," he said, keeping his eyes closed because it was easier that way. "I just wanna know what you're thinking."

There was no response. But after a moment he felt Richie curling into his side -- sighing, like he was steeling himself to say something. So Jon waited.

Then he felt a soft breath close to his ear. "Su-su-sussido."

Jon barked a laugh, and turned to look Richie in the eyes.

"You know I hate you, right?"

"Yeah." Richie smiled. "Feeling's mutual."

Jon returned the smile. "Good."

He closed his eyes again and Richie tossed an arm across his belly. They were still a fucking mess, but it was OK.


End file.
